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Recollections
a few, brief stories. a few, brief moments in the lives of someone else. ---- mentions of alcohol :A young dragonet skips ahead of her family, leaving prints in the wet sand and picking up shattered shells for her family to see. An older dragoness smiles at her, nodding in approval. She looks down at the other dragonet holding her hand. Deciduous walks next to them, a little farther forward. He grins at the dragonet picking up shells, and she grins back. His grin fades into a smile as he turns towards the rest of his family. The younger dragonet yelps in surprise as she crouches over something she's found in the sand, heedless of the ocean water rising and receding over her talons. The male dragon grins at the older dragonet, too, though his smile isn't as cheerful as it was for the younger of the two. "Come on, Rosefinch," he says, extending his hand. "Let's go see what your sister's found." My talons brush over the faded photograph, framed by simple pine wood. It's the only decoration in my room, and the only solid memory I have of my father. It was from two years ago, right before he died. We took a vacation to a calmer, less war-torn part of the Sea Kingdom on one of his few leaves from the army. I was six, old enough to think myself too old for Passerine's foolishness, and too young to not want to join her. What's sad about the memory is that I can't remember what his voice sounds like. My memory only has a stereotypical male voice. Passerine would know, I suppose. She remembers far more about Father than I do. She was closer to him. She still draws him all the time. She used to be terrible at it. Now I can see the resemblance between the dragon in her pictures and the man whose spirit haunts my dreams and the picture. But she would give me The Look again if I asked what his voice sounded like. That face that was full of grief at his death and disgust at me for not remembering and agonizing pain. I love her. I do. But I couldn't help her back when she was suffering because I didn't understand how. She and Father were always both so physical in their affection. They shared nudges and hugs and leaned into each other. Mother and I were never comfortable with that. Mother was okay with Father touching her, but when Passerine used to hug her out of joy, I never missed that surprised expression that covered the hint of disgust at being touched. It seems that I inherited it. I would awkwardly pat Passerine on the shoulder or the head when she was grieving, and she'd give me The Look. I'm not good at showing people I love them. All I do for Passerine is keep Mother's watchful gaze off her so she can make mischief and love and lose like I never got to. I just want Passerine to be happy again. "Rosefinch!" Mother's voice cuts into my thoughts. Her voice is gravely and a little bit rough. At least it's not slurred today. I highly suspect she's been meddling with things she shouldn't when Passerine isn't looking. I don't respond- Mother doesn't expect me to. She just needs me to come. That's Mother for you. She believes in the traditional "children should be seen and not heard." Father was more open-minded, ready to accept anything. I could've told him I was bisexual and he would've loved me more for it and started setting me up with girls, too. It's not the same with Mother. I love her, but she's not Deciduous. It's still hard to think of him as my father. He wasn't there when I hatched and he never really became my father. Sure, I called him "Father" and all, but when thinking of him my immediate response is still "Deciduous" or "Passerine's dad." The latter stings. But he was hers. He was hers to laugh with, to cry with, to smile with. To weather the storm of life with. And then he was not. My family's complicated. I don't like to talk about it. Because even if I did, you wouldn't understand. I don't think anyone would, not even Passerine. She doesn't understand the standards Mother holds me to in comparison to the ones I hold me to. "Rosefinch!" Mother calls again, louder and even more aggravated. Oh, shoot. I don't have the energy to deal with her anger today. I scamper out my room, into the hallway and skid to a stop right outside the kitchen so I can emerge looking composed and obedient. I turn the corner, eyes on the ground, back stick straight, perfectly postured and obedient. Exactly as Mother wants me to be. What '''she' wants me to be''. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. But that's probably not healthy- I should just stay quiet and listen. Mother's blood-red gaze cuts through me. Her eyes are the same color as my own, except hers are enhanced by tortoiseshell glasses that she now peers at me over. "What kept you?" It's phrased as a question, but it's not. Anyone else listening might have thought it was, but her voice is hard. "Mucking around again, weren't you." We both know the "again" isn't applicable. I've never "mucked around." Well, maybe I have. Maybe I have fooled around with a friend once. But she doesn't know. As a matter of fact, I was daydreaming about a girl in my class and thinking about Father, a braver and more outspoken me might have said, once upon a time, in a reality different from this one. In one I'd like to live in. In one where I could be like Passerine. But I say nothing and keep my eyes to the ground, deadening my mind to Mother's tsk, tsking. I like to call it deadening. It sounds much more impressive than it really is. I just shut off my mind. Ignore her words. Let it slide off my scales like water off my back to keep her from hurting me. She takes a long swig from a bottle on the table. Drinking. again. What a brilliant idea, Mother. "Make yourself useful and go find your sister," she says, waving a lazy hand at me dismissively. The one holding the bottle. She's drunk. I watch the green glass, swinging in a lazy arc. She's going to spill some. Or maybe drop the bottle. Either way, I'm going to end up cleaning it up. Mother turns away, taking another sip. I turn away before she finishes, wrinkling my nose at the stench. I'll have to find where she's kept her new stash. But that's a job for another day. I need to find Passerine and get her back before Mother gets drunk enough to start punishing "insolence." Category:Fanfictions Category:Fanfictions (Fanon) Category:Content (ForestFire28) Category:Fanfictions (Incomplete)